The morning had started warm—by December-in-Montana standards, anyway. Just enough chill in the air to remind you it was almost Christmas, without biting through your coat.
Perfect weather for stringing up lights. The air hummed with distant laughter, the occasional clatter of a dropped light strand, and the crisp scent of pine from the garlands Max and I had just unwrapped.
By midmorning, the yard looked like a halfway-decorated fairground. Extension cords snaked across the gravel, half the bulbs still in their boxes, and Max was up on a ladder muttering about shoddy hooks and tangled strands.
Clint and Jerry had rounded up two more volunteers from town. Even Sarah showed up with cookies and thermoses of hot cider, her hands already dusted in flour from morning baking.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.
I adjusted the garland on the porch rail, stepping back to admire the view. Colored bulbs blinked across the fence line. The barn wore a wreath the size of a tractor tire. Someone had even outlined the chicken coop in twinkle lights, which felt absurdly charming.
A quiet sense of peace settled over me, a fragile hope blossoming in my chest. For the first time in a long time, the ranch looked like it was ready for something other than survival. It felt like it was ready for joy.
I heard boots crunch behind me.
Max.
“That wreath on the barn might be overkill,” he said.
I grinned. “I like overkill. Christmas is the one time of year you’re allowed to be a little ridiculous.”
He offered a quiet smile, eyes sweeping the ranch like he was seeing it through new lenses. “Looks good.”
We stood in silence a beat longer than necessary. Then he nodded toward the field. “Walk with me?”
I followed him past the corral, Duke trotting just behind. The air was cooling quickly, dusk tinting the sky pink and gold.
We ended up by the back fence, where the land opened wide beneath the first scatter of stars. The scent of dry earth and distant cedar filled the air.
Max leaned against the post, arms folded, staring out across the field.
“You ever think about leaving?” he asked.
A sudden stillness stole over me, my heart giving a quiet thump against my ribs. I glanced at him, then scraped my toes at the dirt.
“You mean the ranch?”
“Yeah. Even before the job offer. Did you ever think this wasn’t your place?”
I hesitated, a rush of old insecurities flashing through my mind—my awkward first ride, the endless fences I’d nicked with the trailer, the loneliness of trying to fit into a life I hadn’t chosen.
“All the time. At first, it felt like I was trespassing on someone else’s legacy. I didn’t know how to ride. I didn’t know the people. I couldn’t even back up a trailer without taking out a fence.”
Max chuckled under his breath.
I smiled, but it faded as I looked out over the land. “But then I started listening. Watching. Learning. I learned how to mend a fence right, how to coax a nervous horse. And this place—it started feeling like... not just something I inherited. Something I could love. Deeply.”
Max nodded slowly. “My dad used to say, some places choose you, not the other way around.”
“Do you think that’s what this is?” I asked, turning to him, a hopeful tremor in my voice. “The ranch choosing me?”
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was quiet. “I think it already has.”
The words settled between us, soft and true, resonating deep within my soul. They felt like a warm promise, a quiet confirmation that made me feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in ages.
I turned toward him. In the dim light, he looked more relaxed than I’d seen him in weeks, and that calm drew me closer, making me feel safer than I had in years.
“Max...” My breath hitched. My gaze dropped to his lips, wishing he would just bridge the tiny space between us.
